


A Dream Come True

by Divya_Is_A_Pengwing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock freeform, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Divya_Is_A_Pengwing/pseuds/Divya_Is_A_Pengwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns after two years. He decides to confess his feelings to John at the fancy restaurant that Mycroft has told him about and hopes to be forgiven at the very least. Unfortunately for him, he says it all not knowing that John wasn't just on a date, but he was about to propose to Mary Morstan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

Two years. All he could remember of it was darkness and pain. Without his other half, what remained was the carcass of what once was. He looked at his scars in the mirror before him, all signs of battle, but the indelible mark of what he had endured was etched and branded onto his heart - his wretched heart that should have broken that day. Maybe it did. He knew exactly when the heart of his friend ceased to beat and that very moment haunted him like death haunts every living creature on Earth. They needed a miracle, the both of them. Miracles, though, take a while to happen. In this case, two years. 

Sherlock had acquired the evening’s details from Mycroft. “A nice little restaurant,” Mycroft told him. Sherlock had smirked. Reentrance into John’s life could be celebrated with dinner. John would be delighted, he assumed. He strode into the restaurant expecting nothing less than a cheery embrace and possible opportunity for heartfelt confessions. He needed it out of his chest, this pent up emotion. It was there when John had shot that cabbie, it was there when John grew perplexed at the very idea of The Woman and it was very, very much there on that rooftop, but unfortunately for the both of them, it was also there when a sniper had his target set on John’s head. Always hidden, always waiting and almost lost for good. Tonight was the night, Sherlock thought. His feelings would be reciprocated, of course. He looked around spotting John at a table for two. He looked withered, but radiant still. Sherlock smiled and walked towards that table to take a seat in the chair opposite John’s. He sat, smiling. “Hello, John,” his baritone voice uttered words of sorcery to ears that have grown painfully accustomed to never hearing that voice again. 

John sighed, expecting another incessant waiter to ask him if he wanted to take an order. “No, not yet, I am waiting for someone,” he kept saying. He was waiting for Mary Morstan - the woman who had taken a darkened life and thrust it into starlight. He set the little velvet box on the table, by the lone rose and waited, shifting every now and again. Moments passed, and a suit-clad man took a seat in the chair across. John was fiddling with his watch, a nervous distraction. He huffed and looked up, his eyes playing to him a deception that was long since deemed impossible. He blinked once, still there. Blinked twice, unmoving yet. He blinked thrice, but opened his eyes just as his ears were flooded with that voice. He opened his mouth to speak; nothing came out - only precious breath that was fast becoming a finite commodity. 

“I- this may come as a surprise to you, John. I don’t wish to go into too much detail so early, but short version,” Sherlock exhaled, “Not… Dead,” he sat back in his chair. He eyed his blogger, his gaze casual, but it contained a deep longing, a fulfilment of sight for the blind. John smiled, that smile that crossed his face when he was about to pull the trigger on a notorious criminal. It was deadly, and was almost always filled with hate and fury. “You… Were… Dead…” He forced out, his voice catching at every word. “Two years… Why…” He gripped onto the table, his knuckles turning white. “John, I had to, Moriarty… And I will explain in detail later, I promise, but let me just say something before I lose my courage altogether or before you knock me out,” he gestured at John’s hands which were twitching to throw a punch. “I had to leave for two years, fake my death and stay away from you to protect you from Moriarty’s forces. When I said goodbye, John, I held only the regret of not saying what I really wanted to. I could not tell you that I would be coming back, functional reasons, obviously. However, I should have told you what I felt at that very moment. Although, saying it would have meant much more grief should you have felt the same,” Sherlock blurted out. Even his rapid deductions lost to the speed of this. “On that roof, on that pavement, I heard you, I heard your voice break, I heard your legs give out. At the graveyard, I watched you cry, for me. John, I am a fortunate man to have earned the friendship of someone like you. You accept me and believe in me. Two years spent without you was enough to make me realise that I cannot live a life without you in it,” he stopped for breath, now or never, “I love you, John and I hope that you will find it in yourself to at least forgive me,” he said, voice and demeanour timid. 

John just sat there, his hands lying lifeless on his lap now and his face had completely drained of colour. His breathing was barren. Sherlock Holmes had just sprung back into his life, back to life in general for that matter and had just professed his love for him. His mouth was agape. This was what he wanted all along. He was furious, but the knowledge of being able to take out the anger on Sherlock, by possibly making him do all the chores for the next two years was gratifying. Sherlock was here, now. And John had him. Of course that would mean moving back into Baker Street, starting their old life again, as Sherlock and John. “Sherlock, you are the best and wisest man I have and will ever know, yes I forgive you and god… I love you too!” His reply resounded in his head over and over again, but he stayed silent, still gaping. 

“John?” Sherlock called out nervously. “John, that was a prepared speech,” he cautioned as if that would make the doctor reply. Sherlock’s heart was an animal rattling its cages to be released. He sat there, stoic and hopeful.


	2. The Reply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Sherlock's feelings be reciprocated or will he finally realise that he is a bit too late?

“I thought when you said date, you meant for me and you,” a chuckle came out from beside the table while the two men were staring at each other. “John?” Mary called out, her expression locked in confusion and humour. She looked over at Sherlock and her jaw, too, fell like that of her date’s, “It’s you…” She breathed out. Sherlock had switched his stare to Mary, deducing her, taking it all in, then his eyes went wide at sudden realisation. Date? No, too fancy for just a date. John never goes out on very fancy dates. Special date? Maybe. Long-term relationship? Not really, but very established. Married?! He panicked, glancing at her telling finger, no. Good. What so special, then? John and his stupid, soon to be pointless dates, Sherlock smirked. He turned his gaze to John, his vision spewing out deductions like shards of glass. Moustache must go. Suit, why was John wearing a suit to a date? That never happened. He frowned; looking at him and then his eyes fell on the table, on a velvet box. 

Sherlock’s face fell immediately, panic and pain rising in his chest. Proposal. John was going to propose. He blinked, keeping that flood of hopelessness at bay. He cleared his throat and stood up. “Sorry, carry on with your evening. Goodbye John,” he mumbled, before rushing out of the restaurant, leaving the two people in shock. Sherlock raced down the streets, not stopping, not breathing, and not thinking to take a cab. He ran and ran until his heart threatened to halt. That would be excellent, he thought, then it won’t hurt so much. He reached his flat, trembling hands reaching into his pocket for a cold key. He reached to insert it into the slot, but instead found himself slipping down the wall and onto the steps. He sat there in a heap, head in his hands. Not once in those two years had Sherlock Holmes wept like he was weeping now. The torture and sleeplessness did not drive him to such grief, because he knew that John would be waiting, that even if he lost his soul to demons, John would always be there. How wrong he was… 

Sherlock wept and grieved the loss of John. Stupid, stupid, he thought. He had fumbled out his feelings and had embarrassed himself to the point that now even a simple friendship would be impossible. He wiped his blotchy face and entered the flat quietly. Not wanting to encounter Mrs Hudson yet. He walked up the wooden steps, tears dripping onto the floorboards that he had not stepped on in two years. He entered the living room and instead of a welcome, he received emptiness. He received loneliness. 

Sherlock had killed himself, entered the realms of hell and rose back from the dead only to be thrust back into solitude. He had lost everything. He had lost his John. Sherlock removed his coat and hanged it on the stand. He then dragged himself into his bedroom and fished out some house attire. After changing, he walked back into the living room and sat in his chair. Pointless, he concluded. It all felt pointless. The chair had no significance because he could not look at John from there. The flat was eerie without John bustling about. Sherlock scolded himself. It was his fault. John’s pain, was this how it felt? The permanency of the loss struck him like the whip in Serbia. He wept some more. He did not want this. This life. He sobbed. Eventually he fell asleep on that chair. His mind was plagued with nightmares of all sorts. Hours later he jerked awake, huffing and panting. His face swollen, his eyes red and the agony still there. He adjusted to the light and wiped his face, looking around before nearly flying off his chair at the sight beside him. 

John was seated there on their couch, watching. “John, what- What are you doing here, what time is it?” Sherlock asked hurriedly, still recovering from the fright. 

“2AM.” John stated casually. “Nightmares, huh? We can do something about that,” John smiled, leaning back into the couch. 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked again, trying to process John’s use of ‘we’. 

“I just assumed I should move back in, with you alive and all,” John shrugged, his features somewhat playful. He gestured towards a large duffle bag by the couch. 

Sherlock stared in shock. “You- you’re moving back? What would Mary say?” He asked, wondering if he should ask if the proposal went well. His eyes welled up again, dammit. 

“Mary wouldn’t care. She’ll probably be glad that she’s got rid of me, I snore too much,” he chuckled, moving to the edge of the couch now. 

“Didn’t she say yes?” Sherlock looked away, voice cracking. 

“I wouldn’t know, I didn’t ask,” John replied, standing up now. He walked over to Sherlock’s chair and knelt down in front of him. “Sherlock, look at me,” he said softly. 

Sherlock gulped, tears falling freely now as his mind desperately tried to make sense of all of this. He kept his face down and turned. John sighed and reached his fingers to hold Sherlock’s chin gently, turning his face toward him. Sherlock’s face was heartbreaking up close and John was aghast. He quickly reached out and wiped Sherlock’s tears away. “Sherlock, it’s okay, it’s all fine,” John reassured. 

Sherlock let out a sad chuckle. John Watson, the only man whose heart could be smashed to smithereens and betrayed, but still adamant on telling you that it will all be fine. “John, I am sorry, I am so very sorry, I should not have come back,” he rambled on. 

“No, stop that, stop it,” John scolded, his hands cupping Sherlock’s face. “Stop apologizing, I understand. And thank you, for coming back to me, for giving me my miracle,” he smiled with genuine affection that it made Sherlock’s tears stop. “I forgive you for not telling me, but I really don’t have to,” he shrugged. 

“You’re not going to hit me then?” Sherlock asked, his face showing honest confusion with a hint of caution, but if John were to take a swing at him he would happily accept. 

John laughed, “No, you idiot, but…” His features hardened, “I will do this.” Sherlock visibly flinched back, bracing for something, but John’s hands kept him in place, and fortunately so, because he did not receive a punch, but instead a kiss. His eyes widened, but he kissed back, latching on to the way it made him feel, his John was kissing him. 

John pulled back to see a grinning Sherlock, “Now, for my reply to your restaurant speech. Not as prepared,” John admitted. 

“I lied, it wasn’t prepared,” Sherlock blurted out quickly. 

John chuckled again, “Right, well, still, here goes. I love you, Sherlock. Have done for years. I lost myself when I lost you and Mary was there to help ease the pain. She did not fill my heart the way you did, or do. She did not replace you. She was a friend, whom in my desperation, I assumed to be more, but she always knew. I love you, and god knows I would have given my own life if it meant saving you from that fall. Living those two years without you was hell, I tried ending it, ask Mycroft. I waited and waited, but what was so overwhelming was that I didn’t get to tell you how I felt about you. So imagine my shock when you came back to me earlier and confessed your love… To me!” John giggled. “Sherlock, I will never, ever let you go again.” He finished to look at a very touched Sherlock. 

The detective wrapped his long arms around the doctor and held him in a tight embrace. “I love you so much, John and I have missed you more,” he mumbled into John’s neck. 

“I’ve missed you too,” John sighed, hugging back and relishing that fact that he was holding his Sherlock in his arms. They pulled back, both with faces adorned by silly grins. “I suppose we should tell people that you are back,” John said. 

“Yes, yes, that can wait. I have things planned,” he winked, which made John smile wider. “Right now I just want to go to bed, do you mind joining me?” He asked cautiously. 

John nodded, “I would love to, just let me get changed,” he said softly, reaching up to kiss Sherlock on the forehead before he disappeared upstairs and reappeared with pajamas on. Sherlock smiled and stood, taking hold of John’s hand and led him to their room. Sherlock climbed into bed and John followed. They snuggled up against each other. “I love you John,” Sherlock whispered, already on the brink of slumber. “I love you too, Sherlock,” John whispered back, he too falling asleep. 

That night, neither of them had anymore nightmares. Their reality had now cured that. Well… That, or one of them just had a really good dream instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Thank you for reading! Comments very much appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, lovelies! Productive comments appreciated. I do not own the characters!


End file.
